


Invisible Selves

by QueenTorygg



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Other, Romantic Comedy, Sometimes comedy, Two Protagonists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 09:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenTorygg/pseuds/QueenTorygg
Summary: Humbled by the death of his family and the responsibility of being a Grey Warden, Colum Cousland is a spoiled brat quickly learning to change as the Blight threatens life itself. Myra Amell is an apostate, escaped from the Circle with her closest friend and on the run from the law. Colum finds that Chantry Law isn't as just and righteous as he was originally taught to believe, and Myra finds that life outside the Tower isn't all that it's chalked up to be. They have much to learn from each other and of the world outside their sheltered lives.





	1. I Fear What I Don't Understand (Just Like Everyone Else)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colum meets an Apostate in Lothering, but is quick to take her into his custody.

“I swear, Davy, Nan’d bust a blood vessel if she saw you behaving like this.” A tall, young man who had clearly not slept for at least a day ran a frustrated hand through relatively unwashed waves of nut-brown hair. His peachy skin was flush with the exercise of chasing after an overly-curious Mabari, his face covered in several manners of filth the likes of which it had seldom seen. 

“He’s probably caught a whiff of some animal,” Alistair said breathlessly, slowing to a halt. The dog had provided the wardens and the former Lay Sister with the morning run of a soldier-in-training, and evaded them still. “Let’s bribe him with something from Morrigan’s pack.”

Young Cousland’s hand went up in a motion for the party of three to be silent, and a hush fell over them as they rounded the patch of tall grass which the dog had disappeared behind.  The three of them got down low, hoping to sneak up on the animal, but were surprised to spy a group of armored men surrounding a young woman. The men surrounding her appeared to be heavily armed, and Colum recalled a notice on the Chanter’s Board about bandits ‘commandeering’ a farmer’s supplies. It seemed like the thieves were found just in time.

“You got somethin’ I want?” asked the most well-armored of the group, obviously the leader, in a gravelly voice.

“Well, I don’t see why I should give you anything,” said the girl. Her voice was silvery, but the tone was too matter-of-fact to have been safe with a bunch of criminals. “You’re all thieves. I would like to have the farmer’s things back now, please.”

Alistair tapped his fellow Warden’s shoulder and gestured with his head to Davy, who sauntered up behind the girl and sniffed her pockets as she faced down the bandits.  Oddly enough, she looked comfortable standing center-stage among them, and it must have been quite distracting since nobody had seemed to notice the hound’s approach.

 

“Bloody Andraste,” Colum muttered, “she’s a  _ nutter _ .” 

The bandit leader lifted his plate-gloved hand and smacked the girl roughly across the face, the crack of metal on skin echoing through the clearing, making Colum wince. She stumbled backwards and fell to the ground with a grunt and a thud. The Wardens then emerged from their hiding space behind the grass with the chantry Lay Sister in tow, swords drawn and at the ready.

The dog snarled and lunged at the leading bandit’s throat as the girl lay in in the mud, watching with wide eyes, one hand covering her affected cheek. Throwing his arms up, the bandit defended his neck so the beast’s large teeth sank into his forearm instead. Cousland ran towards them, and drove his blade into the bandit’s chest while the dog had him distracted.

 

Alistair effortlessly took a heavy blow with his shield and put all of his weight into shoving the bandit backwards; his boots squelching and struggling to maintain traction in the mud. He dodged the next strike by diving into a sideways roll, right into the path of a new challenger. Colum and his dog faced their own trials. Their skills had only been put to real use these past four weeks, but Colum’s years of practice were paying off. When Davy’s teeth sank into his opponent’s arm, the bandit shrieked and struggled with the beast, and Colum used the opportunity for the bandit’s dispatch. Another opponent drew near, and the Cousland ancestral longsword swiftly disemboweled him. 

 

Vengeance was hot on the heels of the two bandits’ killers in the form of a dual-wielding juggernaut sprinting towards Colum, kicking up mud and grass towards the Warden, who struggled to remove the blade from the corpse, matching the battle cry of his enemy in his frustration. The hair rose on the back of his neck as a gust of strange wind rushed past him. He turned to see that in the girl’s hands a ball of arcane lightning crackled and hissed, faintly lighting her fair skin in ghostly blue. The chance arose to finally remove the dead man from his sword as the mage finished off Colum’s attacker, who was seizing violently until he fell to the ground dead. 

When the battlefield was  finally quiet, the dog bounded after her and pounced, knocking her flat on her back once more and growling as he tore at something in her clothes.

“Maker!” She shrieked. “I helped! I helped!”

“Davy!” The mabari’s master snapped and gave a loud, short whistle. The dog finally broke off what he was after and returned to Colum’s side, chewing his stolen prize in the back of his mouth and nearly choking on it.

Once the dog was at a safe distance from her the girl picked herself up off the muddy ground  once more and felt the place on her hip which was damp with slobber. With a grimace she wiped her hand on a dry spot.

 

There were traces of laughter in Leliana’s voice, but she offered the other woman a sympathetic look. “So I see. Gluttonous  _ does  _ suit you, Davy. You’re such a connoisseur of fine cuisine that you’re willing to steal it from others. I bet it tastes all that much sweeter since you know it didn’t belong to you.”

 

“Great,” the girl sighed. “That was supposed to be my lunch.”

  
  


The dog whined and lowered his head, the stub of his tail wagging low. 

 

The girl huffed. “Oh, so he’s proud of what he’s done, is he?” Unlike Leliana, she was far from amused. 

 

“I’m sorry about that. He hasn’t eaten a decent meal since he left home,” Cousland explained carefully to the wounded party. She didn’t answer.  

 

Colum watched while she was busy dusting herself off, and finally noticed her strange manner of dress. It was a gown of sorts, but was too fine for a refugee, and too modest for a noble’s. Most noble girls he knew of would be concerned with their hair about right now, but her pigtail braids of considerable length carried a few stray pieces of yellow grass and there were loose hairs and split-ends everywhere, which she wasn’t attending to. Furthermore, there wasn’t a trace of makeup on her. There wasn’t a trace of paint on her rosy lips and round cheeks, which were smudged with dirt. Of course what she looked like was beside the point. Her clothing and the suspect walking stick were what really concerned him, particularly after witnessing the  _ magic _ tricks she had pulled off.

“What are you staring at?” The girl furrowed her brows and folded her arms carefully over her chest, but then her expression slightly softened, “Oh, right. I really should thank you for helping me. I was a bit in over my head there.”

 

Using the back of his hand, Alistair wiped some grime from his forehead and sighed happily. “Ooh, an actual thanks? That’s a first for us.” 

Cousland nodded slowly and cleared his throat, stuttering a little as he spoke, “Right. Don’t mention it. You helped us too. With that thing you did. The magic, I mean. You’re a mage.”

She wrinkled her nose. “A mage that helped. I’m Myra, by the way.”

“Colum.” 

She waved shyly as they all introduced themselves, and then rubbed the back of her neck and gestured to his armor, more specifically, the heraldic griffon on the chest plate, and the crest on Colum’s shield, which he quickly stashed on his back, “I’ve seen that crest on your shield somewhere before. And that’s a griffon on your chest. Are you Grey Wardens?”

“Ri-ight.” Alistair sighed. “I thought we were a bit, er, conspicuous?”

“She’s one to talk.” Colum replied with a haughty snort. He nodded at Myra and stepped a little closer. He was a whole head taller than her, but she stood her ground in front of him, hands on her hips. “Here’s a mage, but the Circle tower is miles away and the only templars around are swarming the chantry back in town. So what are you? An apostate? A witch?”

She matched his posture, standing straight as if to level with him. “What do you care? Were I a maleficar, do you think I would have let that low-life raise a hand to me?” She pointed to the bloodied heap that was the bandit leader. “Or that I would be talking to you?”

 

“What do I care? You mean aside from the usual reasons to dislike apostates? Judging by how you thought you could deal with bandits diplomatically, here we have one that’s an utter  _ loon _ .” Alistair stifled a laugh behind him, and Colum shot him a glare. 

 

“This is not fair,” Leliana abruptly interjected, placing her hands on her hips, “You say you traveled three days with an apostate and received healing from her odd mother? You don’t know this girl’s story and yet you judge her. Morrigan would sooner attack a group of thieves than ask for what she wanted, no? How do you know this person does not have better intentions than those of your own allies?” 

 

Myra’s expression turned slightly smug. “Ah. A voice of reason. How lonely you must be among these boys, my lady.” 

 

The sister’s brow tightened.

 

“Enough,” Colum said, hands making a sweeping motion as if to push the very topic away from him. He then pointed to Myra. “What sort of girl spends her morning facing down bandits, unarmored and alone as you were? If you’re not mad, either you have some  _ amazing  _ tricks up your sleeves, or you’re stupid. Either way, there’s a good chance you’d be dead if we hadn’t come here.” 

 

Myra’s brows shot up her forehead, and she crossed her arms.

 

“He...has a point, actually.” Though he seemed to share Colum’s thoughts on the matter, Alistair spoke to her with a little more kindness. “If we hadn’t come here in time, then where would you be? And even if you’d survived the fight, you know how it is. There’s always someone around ready to earn a few coppers in exchange for information, and a lot of Templars happen to have deep pockets if there’s mages involved.” 

 

Myra’s expression fell suddenly and her shoulders slumped as she covered her face with her hands. The sound of a sharp inhale, like a sniffle, was muffled by her palms. When she finally took her hands away Colum saw that her face had reddened significantly and her grey eyes were a little damp, the sight of which made the corners of his mouth tug into a hard frown. His companions on either side of him made quiet sounds but ultimately held their tongues.

 

“I see.” Her voice was a little nasally, and she sniffed again. “Then you’re looking to turn me in? Were I to run, your hound could catch me. Were I to fight…” She trailed off, turning her head to look at the clearing littered with the bodies of the bandits.

 

“No.” Colum roughly shook his head. “The darkspawn are coming for Lothering, and the Chantry would likely leave you to your fate against them to work on saving their own hides.” He shook his head, remembering the carnage he’d seen at Ostagar. The smell of blood, steel, smoke, and burning flesh, the guttural sounds of the spawn on their murderous spree, and the cries of brave men begging not to die. To think of what happened there made him sick to his stomach, and at once he was reminded of the prisoner that had likely died in his cage, and the Qunari earlier that day that would have met a similar fate had the Wardens not intervened. 

 

When Colum realized he had paused, he cleared his throat. “Even for heathens and apostates, a death at the hands of the spawn is too cruel a punishment. You’ll come with us; we’ll escort you to the Tower. We’re headed there anyway, since we have need of mages.”

 

Leliana grinned, and clapped her hands together once. “Traveling with and aiding Grey Wardens is a just cause, no? A chance at redemption.” Alistair chuckled once, dryly, but said nothing.  

 

Myra sniffed again and wiped one eye. She didn’t look any happier with this development than she was with the prospect of being turned in to the Lothering Chantry. “Then, I am at your mercy,” There was a pause in which she bit her lip, and then reluctantly added, “Ser?”

 

“For now.” Colum said. “We can discuss all of this later, however. Let’s just get a move on.”

***

 

Night was slow to appear, but once the sky was red and the sun began to sink, the Wardens found a quiet place off road for their crowd of new friends. A flat clearing with a felled tree off to one side and a number of logs and stumps seemed a perfect place to set up camp. The area’s grass was worn down, and in one corner of the space lumbermen’s tools were found abandoned, though since the light of day was gone it was unlikely anyone would come around.

 

Dinner was a thick stew with chunks of meat, some nuts, and cabbage. Alistair had apparently forgotten the origin of the meat, but most everyone seemed too hungry to care. Colum scarfed down his meal as though he were a starving piglet, pausing only a little between bites to chat a little with Alistair. The two Wardens and the hound sat away from the rest of the group, and talked quietly together about their plans as they slurped their supper.

 

“Before we see Eamon,” Colum said, mouth full of a stale chunk of bread he had to soften with his stew, “We should see the mages. It’s closest by Redcliffe, and on our way.”

 

“Mm.” Alistair had unceremoniously stuffed a large spoonful into his mouth and another soon after, before he had even swallowed the previous bite. “That could work. Pick them up on our way. Speaking of which.” His amber eyes darted towards the blonde on the far side of camp, who was busy picking at her food. He let out a small belch before going on. “Our apostate friend—the sad one, not the grumpy one. You, er, dislike her?”

 

Colum glanced in Myra’s direction, and then shrugged. He brought his bowl to his lips to shovel the contents into his mouth with ease, and then with a full mouth he replied. “I’m indifferent, actually.” 

 

“Oh, really?” Alistair raised a brow. “You didn’t sound _indifferent_ when you were talking to her before. You were...” he trailed off and pursed his lips while searching for the right word. Finally he sucked in a deep breath. “Well. You were kind of rude.”

 

Colum furrowed his brow and took a moment to think. He hadn’t spoken to Myra since then and obviously didn’t know her very well, but he did get the sense that she was upset earlier. Well, he supposed she would be since she just got caught.

 

Okay, and maybe he was less than polite.  _ Maybe  _ his mother would have disapproved of the way he had spoken. He sighed, kicked himself mentally, and finished his supper in silence before getting ready for bed.

 

Myra was wrapped in a thin blanket that looked suspiciously like the sack she carried all of her things in, and found a tree to lean against. Unfortunately, it seemed that sleep was reluctant to hold her. Colum watched her struggle from his place on his bedroll for a few moments before finally deciding to get up and approach her.

 

“Trouble sleeping?” He asked as gently as he could.

 

Myra looked up at him, looking a little surprised. She was a little hesitant to answer. “Well, yes. You?”

 

“Sleeping is more difficult than it should be, yes.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Her lips formed a tight line, and there was a silence between them during which Colum felt his skin crawling from the discomfort. He broke it by clearing his throat, and lowered himself to a sitting position at a respectful distance from her, rubbing his hands together to fight against the cold.

 

“Listen,” he started, struggling to maintain eye-contact with her as the tips of his ears turned hot, “I have to say something. Someone told me I was incredibly harsh when I spoke to you earlier, and they are absolutely right.” Colum lowered his head, and nervously ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way.”

 

Myra drew her blanket up to cover her mouth. She didn’t answer him, only stared.

 

“My mother would have boxed my ears for that.” Colum continued. His mouth was dry, and though the night was a little chilly, he felt as though he would break out in sweating at almost any moment. “I hope that you can forgive me.”

 

Finally Myra spoke. “Your mother. She’s the Teyrna?”

 

Colum was sure that topic hadn’t come up with conversation with anyone today, and was a little surprised, but nodded anyway. “Yes. She was. I know you recognized the Highever crest on my shield, but how did you know that?”

 

“While supper was being made, I saw the coat-of-arms on the pommel of your sword. It’s in a history book I read once. I figured you’re either a very well-educated thief, it’s a forgery, or you’re a lord. The latter was the most likely scenario.”

 

“Ah.” Her ability to retain information was unsettling when he took into consideration his history with women’s memories. Anything one did would always be remembered, even if oneself was prone to forgetting things. He shuddered to remember his mother’s wrath. 

 

Myra flicked a piece of grass off of her blanket after they broke eye-contact. When he finally moved to get up, she watched, but stopped him before he could go by clearing her throat to speak. “Thank you for the apology. I’ve had some time to think myself, and I understand that one apostate may be a problem. Two perhaps are worse.” She shifted her somber gaze from him to the corner of the camp where Morrigan had secluded herself. Now Colum could see what Alistair meant when he referred to Myra as ‘the sad one.’ “If —no, _when_ I am returned to the Circle, I’ll remember that you helped me.” The last bit sounded a little forced, and the smile that appeared afterwards seemed artificial. 

 

Finally able to return to his bedroll, he laid down, hands laced together on his chest and head resting on his pack as he stared up at the sky, watching the stars twinkle. He had apologized, and thought that clearing his conscience would have helped him get to sleep, but somehow that seemed even less likely than before. 


	2. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens arrive at Kinloch Hold to seek aid from the Mages as well as to turn Myra in, but there's something more sinister than a runaway mage behind those iron doors.

To Colum, it had almost seemed as though Myra had forgotten her predicament during the two day travel to Lake Calenhad. After a short spell of tortured silence among the entire group, Alistair finally broke the tension.

 

“So~,” he drew out the vowel as he sidled up to walk at the same pace as Colum and Davy where they were taking point. “We’re going to the Tower, right? You know it’s just occurred to me that I’ve never ever seen a fat templar. Do fat templars exist? Has anyone seen one? Are they even allowed?” Alistair turned so that he was walking backwards in order to watch the rest of the group following behind for their reactions, but he received only puzzled looks from the few people paying attention to him. “I did, however, hear rumors of one such templar over in Denerim. Goes by the name of Ser Cumference.” 

 

Myra was the first to laugh, suppressing it first, but it escaped through her nose in a drawn out and pig-like snort. She, Alistair, and Leliana then chatted freely among themselves about food, Orlesian fashion, and a couple of tedious games of I Spy. Colum merely shrugged off the jokes and conversation going on behind him, and wondered every time he managed to glance back at them if his own face matched Morrigan’s glowering visage, or Sten’s bemused frown.

 

However, Myra’s good mood retreated like a turtle into its shell the second the Lake Calenhad Docks had come into view. She became quiet and reserved, withdrawing herself from the chatter and games. Colum first noticed the change in her behavior on the road but didn’t think anything of it until they stopped to make camp by the shore. Myra began to slowly unravel her long pigtail braids with shaking hands. When he stopped to pitch a tent, he watched her stand perfectly still, arms wrapped around herself as she stared in the direction of Kinloch Hold.

 

Though the answer seemed rather obvious to Colum, he still thought of asking her if she was nervous, and toyed with the idea of starting any sort of conversation while he was busy setting up his sleeping arrangements. Even if it started an argument, it would end the awkward silence between them. Better not, he decided. 

 

He finally called the group together once camp was set up, and split it into two groups. Morrigan, Leliana, and Sten would watch the camp. Being so close to civilization, Colum concluded it was unlikely anything major would happen while both Grey Wardens were away, and the Qunari was something of a terrifying sight to most would-be bandits and thieves. 

 

When they arrived at the docks, Colum spotted a drunken man outside of the inn gawking in their direction, and an uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the runaway mage, the Mabari, or the two wardens in full armor that drew the man’s attention. Staying long enough to find out was probably a bad idea. 

 

A lone templar was stationed at the pier, guarding a loosely tethered rowboat. Colum noted the weathered look of the vessel, and wondered just how many times it had to be patched for leaks. 

 

After struggling to communicate with the Templar guarding the pier, the four of them were finally on the boat. Davy was anxious during the ride over the water and nearly tipped it several times. He finally settled down when Colum held him in his arms like a small child. When they finally reached the other side, Davy jumped for dry land immediately, and the rest shuffled off until only Myra was left still on board. 

 

Standing at the base of the tower, Colum craned his neck to look up at the top of the tower. A breeze passed by and he suddenly felt uncomfortably chilly. Colum turned away from the Tower to watch Myra step hesitantly onto the docks, one small, slippered foot carefully lifted out of the boat while she used both hands to ensure she wouldn’t trip over her robes.

 

A nagging feeling snagged him the moment the party stepped into the entrance hall of the Circle Tower, and did its best to make Colum’s skin crawl. Templars were busy running from this way and that, hurrying to carry out the orders given to them by an angry man in the center of the hall. There was an unmistakable sense of urgency about this place.

When Colum finally came face to face with the Knight Commander, Myra hung her head like a child expecting to be severely punished. Cousland sighed internally when he saw her grim expression, and he felt a little nauseated.

“The doors are barred.” Alistair commented quietly. Colum’s eyes followed to where his fellow warden’s gaze was fixed, towards a set of heavy iron doors. “Are they keeping people out? Or  _ in _ ?”

“ _You_.” Greagoir sneered at Myra, ignoring the Grey Wardens and the Chantry sister accompanying her. “I see the Maker’s sense of humor is dark as ever. Why’ve you returned? Have you come to help these other blood mages?”

Myra’s face shifted from ashamed, to puzzled, to shock within a matter of seconds, and her lips parted as if to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

“Actually,” Colum interrupted their exchange with one hand raised to draw attention off of the mage, “I’m a Grey Warden and have need of mages. I met Myra on the way here, and planned to return her to the Tower.” His brow furrowed, and he glanced between Myra and the Knight Commander. “Although… you’re obviously dealing with your own problems.”

“What’s the word? Understatement?” whispered Alistair beside him.

“You!” Greagoir barked in what seemed to be Myra’s direction, causing her to flinch. The sound of Alistair’s large boots scuffing on the stone floor indicated he had taken a step back, and Colum’s gaze snapped to the mage to see what she could possibly be doing to offend the Knight-Commander so. Behind her was a young Templar too small for his chestplate standing wide-eyed and frozen in place. “ _ Wasteman _ ” continued Greagoir. “What are you doing hiding in the corner? Attend to the wounded or Maker help me  _ I’ll tan your sorry hide like your father should’ve!” _ He visibly fumed for a moment, and then turned back to face the Wardens once the Templar had scurried off to work.

“I’ll speak plainly,” Greagoir started calmly, tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose, “The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls. We were far too complacent. First Jowan, now this?” Greagoir’s harsh gaze turned to Myra, who looked away at once. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten  _ your _ role in his escape, child. Crawling back doesn’t absolve you of anything.” She only kept her eyes averted as her face turned deep red, but Greagoir continued his ranting whilst completely unfazed by her visible shame. “It set a dangerous precedent. I should have been more vigilant, and urged Irving to be more wary. I can only hope that someday Jowan gets what he deserves, but for now I have more pressing concerns.”

Though Myra tried her hardest to hide her face behind the blonde curtain of her thick hair, Colum spied one of her fingers swiping at her cheek. He recalled a saying about airing one’s dirty laundry, and finally understood it well. Both Wardens pretended to be very interested in different parts of the room, Alistair with a potted plant in the corner, and Colum with the scuffed toes of Greagoir’s boots. Davy nudged Myra gently and leaned against her, licking the palm of her hand hanging by her side.

“I understand you’re a very busy man.” Colum was a little cold when he addressed the Knight Commander. “Let’s do one another a favor and cut to the chase, then. Where is your First Enchanter? He can give me the mages I require, correct?”

Greagoir heaved a sigh.

“I don’t know. We saw only demons, hunting mages and templars alike. I’m sorry, Warden. I realized we couldn’t defeat them and told my men to flee.” The Knight Commander gestured to their surroundings with both hands. Though there were many templars present, their numbers were too small to be the entire unit stationed there. Colum grimaced at the sorry situation.

In his frustration Colum sighed  placed one hand on his hip, using the other to run through his hair as he thought. If he left there may be no mages left to help fight the Archdemon. If he stayed, what could happen then? Were abominations as grotesque and savage as the Darkspawn? What could he do?

“Is… there anything that can be done?” Myra’s voice was quiet and shook a little “They’re not all dead, are they? There are some that might be saved?”

Greagoir took a pause to examine Myra’s face for only a moment, and then hung his head. He didn’t speak as harshly as when he first addressed her. “I have already sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment.”

Her breath caught in her throat and she took a step back, shaking her head as her eyes filled with tears and her voice raised a little. “The entire circle?” she asked. Colum was watching her reaction closely, and noted the look on her face. It was comparable to the look he’d seen on the face of a bandit he gutted when they first met. “But you don’t even know what’s been happening in there! You’ve locked yourself out here to hide from it all!”

“The mages are probably already dead.” Alistair sounded sympathetic and his shoulders slumped a little, but it didn’t last long. “Any abominations in there  _ must _ be dealt with, no matter what.”  

“This situation is  _ dire _ .” Greagoir explained to her, “There is no other alternative, everything in the Tower must be destroyed so that it can be made safe again.”

Colum intervened at this point, stepping between Greagoir and Myra, his hand extended as if he was pushing the other man away from her. “Hold a minute, Templar. There may be people left alive and uncorrupted, but you’re willing to abandon them so that they can all be killed anyway?”

The Knight Commander’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and his fingers tapped the metal pommel almost impatiently. Teyrn Cousland, Colum’s own Father, though generally calm and collected in life, had a similar habit when frustrated. “If any are still alive, the Maker Himself has shielded them.” Greagoir’s expression faltered momentarily into something that almost resembled pain, and his voice softened just ever-so-slightly. “No one could have survived those creatures. It’s too painful to hope for survivors and find… nothing.”

“Then I’ll spare you,” Colum pushed past Greagoir towards the great iron doors, “I have need of mages against the Blight. I understand the Circle faces its own trials, but it must be dealt with if we are to hope for any mages to fight against the darkspawn. Maker-willing, any survivors will be rescued, and abominations and demons shall be dealt with. Open the doors.” 

 


	3. Too Much Effort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens are nearly at the top of the Circle Tower, but something is standing in their way.

Colum leaned against the stone wall just before the door into the next floor of Kinloch Hold, removing his helmet and taking a deep breath. Just as he suspected, the air was just as sour outside of his helmet as it was within. The color had drained from Colum's face, which was covered with sweat. His nut-brown waves had formed the shape of the inside of his helmet, and stuck to his damp skin. The stench of smoke, blood, steel, and viscera combined was enough to make his stomach churn, and he dry-heaved, turning his face to the wall to hide his face in his arm.

“You okay?” Alistair placed a gloved hand on his shoulder and patted once.

“I'm fine. Really.” Colum replied when he finally managed to compose himself for a second enough to speak, failing to sound very confident as he was more prepared for his stomach to expel its contents all over the wall. “I just need a--,” Colum dropped his helmet, the outside of which was dull and sticky with dried blood and whatever else had splattered over him. It clanked on the ground and rolled away. His newly freed hand then went to his stomach, and the other supported his weight against the wall as his most recent meal was dropped in an unrecognizable form on the ground. Alistair looked away, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but remained by Colum's side.

After retching violently for a solid minute, he took a deep breath, gave Alistair a brotherly tap to the chest with his knuckles, and hesitantly turned towards the group before putting his helmet back on. “Right then.” He cleared his throat, voice coming out a little shaken at first. “Let's take a quick minute to patch ourselves up, but be fast. We don't have all day. Wynne--,” he gestured to the elderly woman that had joined them after Greagoir let them through the doors, “How are you holding up? Do you need anything?”

The old woman managed to smile at him as she took a moment to stretch, her pale face creasing at the corners of her eyes and on her cheeks, giving away her age. “I'm alright.” She assured him calmly. “These old bones can keep up just as well.”

“Myra?” Colum scanned the room for her.

He spotted her where she had lowered herself into a sitting position on one of few clean spots on the floor. The skirt of her sunny-yellow robes was pulled up to her knees, her left leg folded underneath her to support the other as she worked a healing spell over a bloody cut on her calf, about three inches long. He approached and took a knee beside her.

“I’m… oh, I’m utterly exhausted.” She confessed to him with a sniff. Her face was covered in grime-- dried blood and soot, and her loose hair was matted with Maker knows what. There were tears in her eyes, but she was blinking them away.

Colum nodded and rummaged through his pack, pulling out a cloth folded over. He opened it to reveal a small snack of bread and dried meat. Even after vomiting, his own stomach growled at the sight of food but he handed it over to Myra, along with his half-empty water skin from his belt.  
.  
“Why?” She asked, brow knit in confusion.

“At least eat the meat and take a drink. It helps.” Colum got to his feet, and crossed the room over to the door leading to the next floor, standing to wait in front of it as everyone finished patching themselves up. 

“Are we ready?” Alistair finally asked with his sword and shield already drawn. 

Myra brushed her hair out of her face and stood up, holding her staff in her hands. “Ready whenever you are.”

Colum looked to Wynne, who nodded her reply. He then drew his weapon and threw open the door.   
__ 

The metallic stench of blood and raw, skinless flesh made Colum stifle another dry-heave as he entered the room, but the sight in the middle was enough to make him vomit once more if he even had anything left. Never, even at Ostagar or the siege on Castle Cousland, had Colum seen such carnage. A totem made of flesh and bones was the centerpiece for the room, and bodies strewn about the floor surrounded it. At the base of the flesh-structure a grotesque figure was crouched, observing the body of a raven-haired man. The party carefully approached it, weapons at the ready, and when they did it stood up slowly and turned to face them. 

It appeared almost human, with a slack-jawed human face, but its eyes were dull and skin was ashen like a corpse, with patches of very in-human scales. It was covered in boils and its very bones were uneven, as if it had begun mutating into something else and stopped halfway between man and creature. One arm hung down to its knees, and the other reached only its hip, and the shoulder-blades jutted out from its back. It’s body seemed as though it were slouching so terribly it was drawn to the floor, and its voice when it spoke was a lazy slur from an unmoving mouth. 

“Ahh… visitors. I’d entertain you, but…” It yawned. “Too much effort involved.” 

Colum could hear Myra beside him, her breathing became labored. “Sloth,” she gasped.

“Too much effort?” Colum used his sword to point out the pile of flesh behind the creature. “Exhausted from all your hard work? Good. You’re all that much easier to kill, just like all the others.”

The creature shrugged and stretched, speaking through another yawn. “But why?” Though its physical mouth never moved, it made the sound of smacking its lips. It was disturbing, and yet Colum found himself unable to look away. He hardly realized his mouth was open, almost mimicking the creature’s slack-jaw as it continued to talk. “Aren’t you tired of all the violence in this world? I know I am. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could just… lay down and forget about it all? ...Don’t you just want to leave it all behind?”

“I’m feeling…” Alistair’s voice came out in a tired rasp, and he yawned loudly. “I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open.” 

There was a clattering sound to Colum’s right and he turned sluggishly, just in time to watch Myra fall to the floor where she had dropped her staff. She hit her head on the stone floor. Colum would have grimaced if he had the energy. 

Alistair fought to keep off the floor, tripping and ultimately sitting slumped up against a bookcase against the wall to their left, the shelves of which toppled and spilled their contents over top of him.

“Resist,” Wynne urged as she stumbled into Colum and grabbed onto him. He fell to his knees with her, fighting to stay on his feet but to no avail. “You must resist.” She begged before his eyelids became far too heavy.


	4. Just What I Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colum wakes up in his own bed.

Colum jolted violently awake, using one hand to shield himself from the sunlight shining in a greenish-yellow hue through the window pane. It was cast at just the right angle across his pillow to tell him he had woken up late. The familiar bed beneath him was softer than he remembered, but he supposed that was what happened when you spent the past month or more sleeping outside. 

 

He sat up.  

 

He  _ had  _ been sleeping outside, right? It wasn’t just a dream? 

 

Colum thought hard, trying to remember all the details. He could remember the sounds, the sights, the scenes. Ostagar, all of those darkspawn, all of those bodies. Alistair, Morrigan, Lothering, the Qunari, Leliana, Myra. He could recall all of their faces and all of their names and yet… here he was. In his own bed, in his own room, in his own home. 

 

He took in the surroundings, his very own organized chaos. Yesterday’s pants were flung into a corner, his boots unceremoniously kicked off and strewn about the floor. Somehow his tunic had landed across his desk, the sleeve dipped into the inkwell --  _ again.  _ On Colum’s bedside table was a tipped bottle of wine, the contents of which had formed a puddle on the tapestry rug below it

 

Perhaps it was just a dream. An intense one. The result of yet another late night snack of wine, cheese, and cured  meats. He got out of bed to quickly dress himself in yesterday’s clothes, but grabbed his sword from the place he kept it under his bed before he approached the door. His hand was rested on the handle. If this was a trick, he couldn’t decide if it was cruel or kind. He also wasn’t sure what to expect when he opened the door. Would he be thrust once more into the burning chaos of the Circle Tower and the impending doom of the Blight? Or would he simply enter the familiar corridor of his family quarters?

 

Colum’s eyes were closed when he turned the handle and pushed open the door, and closed still when he took a step out into the hall. 

 

“Uncle Colum!” A young, excited voice shouted.

 

Opening his eyes, Colum saw the door leading into his brother’s quarters. In front of it, was a small, dark-haired lad of nearly six years. His chubby cheeks were dimpled when he smiled, and in his hands he held a poorly-carved wooden man, which Colum recognized as the sorry attempt he himself had at a handmade gift. 

 

“Oren,” he breathed. Colum dropped to his knees, watching his nephew with disbelief. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes. There was a feeling in his chest, as if someone had grabbed his heart with both hands and had begun to twist as though they were wringing out a wet cloth. “Oren? Is it really you?”

 

The boy dropped his toy and approached looking very concerned. He reached out with a small, soft hand to touch his uncle’s stubbled cheek. “Of course it’s me, silly Uncle. See?” Oren assured him, reaching down with both hands now to grab Colum’s hand and bring it to his own cheek. The tears were now flowing freely, dripping off of Colum’s chin as he brushed some hair out of Oren’s eyes and cupped the boy’s face in his hands. “Why are you sad?”

 

Colum brought his nephew in for a tight hug, crying onto the boy’s shoulder, his body shaking as he did. “Oh, Precious.” He said in between sobs. “I’m just very happy to see you.” 

 

Oren reached his little arms around to give Colum a good pat on the back. “There, there, Uncle.” he said, likely mimicking a soothing tone he’d once heard from his parents. Colum withdrew to dry his eyes, while Oren stood by patiently. 

 

When he was finally composed, Colum got to his feet and extended a hand for Oren to take hold of. “Now, then.What if we go to the kitchens, yeah? Spoil our… what time is it?” 

 

“Almost lunch time.” 

 

“Let’s spoil our lunches with a sweet snack.”

 

Oren did an excited little jig, stomping his feet and giving a squeal. He took hold of his uncle’s hand, and was immediately hoisted up to be carried on his way to the kitchens. There was little bodily traffic on the way there, just two or three guards patrolling the halls. It was normal on a quiet day for it to be like this. 

 

The kitchen seemed busy, but it was just Nan in the center shouting orders to her elven assistant. She held a wooden spoon in one hand and waved it at the boys as they entered, one fist resting on her hip. “Oi. Here to rob me blind of all me bread and butter again? Not this time. Out with the two of yous, before I put this spoon to good use on your sorry hide.” 

 

Colum laughed and set Oren on his feet. “You remember the last time you tried that. I’ll cost you another spoon, love.”

 

“How d’you know I ain’t gone to get them enchanted and unbreakable now?

 

“Blah, blah.” Colum mocked her chattering by using his hand as a puppet to mimic her. “Listen, I had a rough night. Heard your hollering from down the hall and you’re already doing my head in, Nan. Can’t a man just have some jam and biscuits with his nephew?” 

 

The old crone craned her neck to eye little Oren watching her with puppy dog eyes. She scowled down at him for a good ten seconds before looking away and sighing. “Oh, alright. But don’t you go dragging my good name in the mud when his mother asks why he’s not eating his lunch.” 

 

Victorious, Colum went for the pantry and opened the door, letting Oren in first. When he entered in behind the boy his foot brushed against a broom leaned up against the door jamb. It bumped into a shelf on the wall beside it, knocking something down. The sound of metal clanking on stone caused Colum to flinch and close his eyes. When he opened them, he spotted the center of the room where a silver chalice was rolling to a stop at the corner of a hatch door. 

 

“Uncle? Uncle Colum?” Oren called to him, startling him out of thought. Suddenly the fallen chalice was no longer important, at least not more so than butter biscuits and jam. Colum went to retrieve the jar of cookies from its shelf. It was a new jar, made of clay like the last one, but painted with the particularly ugly image of a griffon. Colum briefly wrinkled his nose at the image, but then shrugged it off and patted a burlap sack filled with what was probably grain for Oren to sit. 

 

He then made a beeline to the other side of the stockroom to find the jam. “Have you ever had Orlesian Pear jam before, Oren?” Colum asked as he pulled it from the shelf, tucking it under his arm along with what appeared to be a brand-new jar of Oren’s favorite rose hip jam. 

 

“I don’t know.” The boy replied, his mouth already stuffed full of cookie.

 

“You’ve got to try it. I’m tellin’ you now, it’s the dog’s bollocks.” 

 

Oren giggled as Colum approached and eased into a sitting position beside the little boy, the jar of cookies between them. The jars of jam were set up on the floor alongside it, and Oren was the first to take a large, square biscuit and dip it deep into the red rose hip jam. He then shoved it into his mouth, but not without a bit of the jam finding its way onto his cheek and chin. With a smile, Colum pulled his sleeve over his thumb, and used it to wipe Oren’s face. 

 

“You’re my hero.” Oren said after pushing Colum’s hand away.

 

He scratched his stubbled chin, extremely flattered, and chuckled. 

 

“Am I?” Colum asked. “Why’s that?” 

 

Oren’s expression became very serious-- well, as serious as he could manage with jam and crumbs stuck to his face. “You saved me, and mummy, and papa, and grandpapa, and grandmummy, and Davy, and Nan, and Ser Rory, and everyone from the Dire Bunny.”

 

“I… I did what, now?” Colum’s brow knit in confusion, but his lips were curved in an amused half-smile, wondering if it were just a dream that Oren were recounting to him, or a play-pretend.

 

“The Dark Spawns and the Sword of Truthiness, Uncle Colum. You got rid of them all and winned in a big fight.” His little arms were spread out to show his uncle just how big the fight must have been.

 

Right. The Archdemon-- the ‘Dire Bunny’. Colum had slain the Archdemon and… wait. 

 

All traces of a smile had left Colum’s face, and he started to get to his feet, one hand going to his head. “I’m....sorry, Oren. I’m suddenly not feeling well, I-I-- Something’s not right here.” 

 

“Why?” Oren asked, looking up at Colum with the same puppy-dog eyes he’d given Nan earlier. “Aren’t you happy here, Uncle? You defeated the Darkspawn and saved the world. You’re a hero, and now you get to live peacefully. Oren thinks you’re a hero.” 

 

“You mean  _ you  _ think I’m a hero?” Colum corrected when his nephew began to speak in third person. At once Colum felt a chill and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. There was something very wrong here. He headed for the door.

 

“There’s nothing left for anyone to fear, Uncle.” Oren assured him, getting to his feet and following Colum out of the stockroom and back into the kitchen, where Nan and the elf were standing and watching, motionless except for their heads to follow the movement. “You’ll grow to love the peace. Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what you like?”

 

Colum was rubbing his temples, his head throbbing as he racked his brain to sort out the puzzle here. It was right in front of him, why couldn’t he just piece things together? 

 

“I’m a  _ Warden _ . A Grey Warden. Aren’t I? They fight the Darkspawn.” 

 

“And now the spawn are all dead. There’s nothing left to fear.” Oren assured him. Colum had his back turned, but felt the boy’s small hand patting his back. “In a last great battle, the Archdemon lay slain as the Wardens set the underground caverns ablaze, cleansing the earth from the Blight forever.” 

 

“N-no.” Colum choked out. His head was pounding. There was pressure from inside, as though his skull was ready burst open at seams he didn’t know he had. His voice came out has a half-whispered whimper, and he twisted around to look his nephew in the eyes. “The spawn are never gone. There’s always more. Always more. What’s going on?”

 

Oren’s sweet little voice suddenly shifted to something deep, guttural, and inhuman, and his eyes from innocent blue to cold black. 

 

“ _ Foolish  _ child!” the demon spat. “So much I’ve given you, and all you do is cast it back in my face. Can you not be content with the gift of peace I’ve given you? Are you so selfish?”

 

“This isn’t peace!” Colum barked. “This is complacency. The rest of the world suffers as I sit and dream.”

 

“It seems only war and death with satisfy you. So be it!” The facade of Oren’s body finally cracked and melted away to reveal the demon’s true form. It hissed, baring its needle-point teeth at him. “Have your war! Have your spawn! Have your death!” 

 

The demon lunged for Colum, but he dodged out of the way in an uncoordinated dive in any direction. Nan and the servants were now moving, taking their cue from their master to attack. Colum drew his sword and slashed the first one that came near with a single blow. It dissolved into nothingness. 

 

The one looking like Nan then ran at him with the spoon, but he hesitated to use the blade on her. She may just be a part of his dream but… it looked like Nan. She managed to strike Colum across the mouth with the spoon, which stung a hundred times worse than he could remember. He stepped back and kicked her in the ribs, sending her stumbling backwards. She hit the floor and dissolved, just like the first one had.

 

Now it was just the demon left, masquerading as his nephew. Colum lunged first, a loud and long battle cry coming from deep within his gut. The demon swiped at his skin with its razor-sharp and blackened claws as Colum’s sword penetrated in between its ribs, the tip coming out through its neck. He held the demon close, and it gnashed its teeth at him, aiming for its throat. He held it at a distance. 

 

“Just. What. I.  _ Like _ .” He hissed before giving the blade a twist. It dissolved off the metal, leaving no trace of it behind. 

 

As the carefully constructed stage around him began to fade and reveal an odd structure, a pedestal where the hatch-door had been in the stockroom, Colum stopped to gag while doubled over, close to hypoventilating. 

 

“ _ Oren.”  _ He cried in between breaths.

 

Sheathing his sword, Colum did his best to calm himself, even going so far as to slap himself in the face in an attempt to pull himself together. Once he was able to bring his breathing back to normal, he spied the pedestal, and slowly approached it. 

 

“Is this a way out?” He asked no one. 

 

The pedestal glowed a misty white and was decorated with a strange rune. He wondered what would happen if he touched it. Only one way to find out. Colum placed his palm on the rune, and felt himself moving at high speed in all directions all at once.


End file.
